Chapter XII (1)

1888-1889

"On the earth the broken arcs; in the heaven, a perfect round."

"O thou soul of my soul! I shall clasp thee again,
And with God be the rest!"

"ASOLANDO"--LAST DAYS IN DEVERE GARDENS--LETTERS OF BROWNING AND
TENNYSON--VENETIAN LINGERINGS AND FRIENDS--MRS. BRONSON'S CHOICE
CIRCLE--BROWNING'S LETTERS TO MRS. BRONSON--ASOLO--"IN RUBY, EMERALD,
CHRYSOPRAS"--LAST MEETING OF BROWNING AND STORY--IN PALAZZO
REZZONICO--LAST MEETING WITH DR. CORSON--HONORED BY WESTMINSTER
ABBEY--A CROSS OF VIOLETS--CHORAL MUSIC TO MRS. BROWNING'S POEM, "THE
SLEEP"--"AND WITH GOD BE THE REST."

In the winter of 1887-1888 Mr. Browning wrote "Rosny," which follows the "Prologue" in "Asolando," and soon after the "Beatrice Signorini" and "Flute Music." He also completely revised his poems for the new edition which his publishers were issuing in monthly volumes, the works completed in July. "Parleyings," which had appeared in 1887, had, gloriously or perilously as may be, apparently taken all the provinces of learning, if not all the kingdoms of earth, for its own; for its themes ranged over Philosophy, Politics, Love, and Art, as well as Alchemy, and one knows not what; but its power and vigor reveal that there had been no fading of the divine fire. The poet made a few minor changes in "The Inn Album," but with that exception he agreed with his friend and publisher, that no further alterations of any importance were required. Mr. Browning's relations with his publishers were always harmonious and mutually gratifying. Such a relation is, to any author, certainly not the least among the factors of his happiness or of his power of work, and to Browning, George Murray Smith was his highly prized friend and counselor, as well as publisher, whose generous courtesies and admirable judgment had more than once even served him in ways quite outside those of literature.

In the late summer of 1888 Browning and his sister fared forth for Primiero, to join the Barrett Brownings, with whom the poet concurred in regarding this little hill-town as one of the most beautiful of places, his favorite Asolo always excepted. "Primiero is far more beautiful than Gressoney, far more than Saint-Pierre de Chartreuse," he wrote to a friend: "with the magnificence of the mountains that, morning and evening, are literally transmuted to gold." In letters or conversation, as well as in his verse, Browning's love of color was always in evidence. "He dazzles us with scarlet, and crimson, and rubies, and the poppy's 'red effrontery,'" said an English critic; "with topaz, amethyst, and the glory of gold, and makes the sonnet ache with the luster of blue." When, in the haunting imagery of memory pictures, after leaving Florence, he reverted to the gardens of Isa Blagden, on Bellosguardo, the vision before him was of "the herbs in red flower, and the butterflies on the wall under the olive trees." For Browning was the poet of every thrill and intensity of life--the poet and prophet of the dawn, not of the dark; the herald who announced the force of the positive truth and ultimate greatness; never the interpreter of the mere negations of life. The splendor of color particularly appealed to him, thrilling every nerve; and when driving with Mrs. Bronson in Asolo he would beg that the coachman would hasten, if there were fear of missing the sunset pageant from the loggia of "La Mura." In "Pippa Passes," how he painted the splendor of sunrise pouring into her chamber, and in numberless other of his poems is this fascination of color for him revealed.

Painted by George Frederick Watts, R.A.

In the possession of the National Portrait Gallery, London.]

Under the date of August, 1888, the poet writes to Mrs. Bronson:

DEAREST,--We have at last, only yesterday, fully determined on joining
the couple at Primiero, and, when the heats abate, going on to Venice
for a short stay. May the stay be with you as heretofore? I don't feel
as if I could go elsewhere, or do otherwise, although in case of any
arrangements having been made that stand in the way, there is the
obvious Hotel Suisse. I suppose at need there could be found a
messenger to poor Guiseppina, whose misfortunes I commiserate. You
know exactly how much and how little we want. But if I am to get any
good out of my visit I must lead the quietest of lives....

We propose setting out next Monday, the 13th,--Basle, Milan, Padua,
Treviso, Primiero, by the week's end.

I have been nearly eleven weeks in town, with an exceptional four
days' visit to Oxford; and hard social work all the time, indeed, up
to the latest, when, three weeks ago, I found it impossible to keep
going. Don't think that the kindness which sometimes oppresses me
while in town, forgets me afterward; I have pouring invitations to the
most attractive places in England, Ireland, Scotland,--but "c'est
admirable, mais ce n'est pas la paix." May I count on the "paix" where
I so much enjoyed it? I hear with delight that Edith will be with you
again,--that completes the otherwise incompleteness. Yes, the
Rezzonico is what you Americans call a "big thing."... But the
interest I take in its acquisition is different altogether from what
accompanied the earlier attempt. At most, I look on approvingly, as by
all accounts I am warranted in doing, but there an end....

... So, dearest friend, "a rivederci!" Give my love to Edith and tell
her I hope in her keeping her kindness for me, spite of the claims on
it of all the others. And my sister, not one word of her? Somehow you
must know her more thoroughly than poor, battered me, tugged at and
torn to pieces, metaphorically, by so many sympathizers, real or
pretended. She wants change, probably more than I do. And, but for
her, I believe I should continue here, with the gardens for my place
of healing. How she will enjoy the sight of you, if it may be! Tell me
what is to be hoped, or feared, or despaired of, at Pen's address,
whatever it may be. And remember me as ever most affectionately yours,

ROBERT BROWNING.

The succeeding letter, written from Albergo Gille, Primiero, tells the story of a rather trying journey, what with the heat and his indisposition, but on finding himself bestowed at Primiero he is "absolutely well again," and anticipating his Venice: "what a Venice it would be," he says, "if I went elsewhere than to the beloved friend who calls me so kindly!" And he adds:

"My stay will be short, but sweet in every sense of the word if I find
her in good health, and in all other respects just as I left her; 'no
change' meaning what it does to me who remember her goodness so well.
It will be delightful to meet Edith again, if only it may be that she
arrives while we are yet with you, even before, perhaps.

"Can I tell you anything about my journey except that it was so
agreeable an one? On the first evening as I stepped outside our
carriage for a moment, I caught sight of a well-known face. 'Dr.
Butler, surely.' You have heard of his marriage the other day to a
learnedest of young ladies, who beat all the men last year at Greek.
He insisted on introducing me to her; I had seen her once before
without undergoing that formality and willingly I shook hands with a
sprightly young person ... pretty, and grand-daughterly, she is,
however, only twenty-six years his junior. Then, this happened; the
little train from Montebelluna to Feltre was crowded--we could find no
room except in a smoking carriage--wherein I observed a good-natured,
elderly gentleman, an Italian, I took for granted. Presently he said,
'Can I offer you an English paper?' 'What, are you English?' 'Oh, yes,
and I know you,--who are going to see your son at Primiero.' 'Why,
who can you be?' 'One who has seen you often.' 'Not surely, Mr.
Malcolm?' 'Well, nobody else.' So ensued an affectionate greeting, he
having been the guardian angel of Pen in all his chafferings about the
purchase of the palazzo. He gave me abundance of information, and
satisfied me on many points. I had been anxious to write and thank him
as he deserved, but this provided an earlier and more graceful way,
for a beginning at least.

"Pen is at work on a pretty picture, a peasant girl whom he picked up
in the neighborhood, and his literal treatment stands him in good
stead; he is reproducing her cleverly, at any rate, he takes pains
enough."

Towards the end of September they joined in Venice the "beloved friend," whose genius for friendship only made each sojourn with her more beautiful than the preceding, if that which was perfect could receive an added degree. "It was curious to see," wrote Mrs. Bronson, "how on each of his arrivals in Venice he took up his life precisely as he had left it." Browning and his sister frequently went on Sundays to the Waldensian chapel, where in this autumn there was a preacher of great eloquence. Every morning, after their early coffee, the poet was off for a brisk walk, and after returning he busied himself with his letters and newspapers, his mail always containing more or less letters from strangers and admirers, some of whom solicited autographs, which, so far as possible, he always granted. Mrs. Bronson has somewhere noted that when asked, _viva voce_, for an autograph, he would look puzzled, and say "I don't like to always write the same verse, but I can only remember one," and he would then proceed to copy "All that I know of a certain star," which, however it "dartles red and blue," he knew nothing of save that it had "opened its soul" to him. Arthur Rogers, delivering the Bohlen lectures for 1909, compared Browning with Isaiah, in his lecture on "Poetry and Prophecy," and he instanced this "star" which "opened its soul" to the poet, as attesting that Browning, like Isaiah, could do no more than search depths of life.

The Palazzo Giustiniani-Recanti was a fitting haunt for a poet. Casa Alvisi, adjoining, in which Mrs. Bronson lived, looked out, as has been noted, on Santa Maria della Salute, which was on the opposite side of the Grand Canal; but the Giustiniani palace, dating to the fifteenth century, had its outlook through Gothic windows to the south, on a court and garden of romantic loveliness. The perfect tact of their hostess left the poet and his sister entirely free to come and go as they pleased, and at midday they took their dejeuner together, ordering by preference Italian dishes, as rissotto, macaroni, and fruits, especially figs and grapes. They enjoyed these _tete-a-tete_ repasts, talking and laughing all the while, and then, about three every afternoon they joined Mrs. Bronson and her daughter for the gondola trip. The hostess records that the poet's invariable response to the question as to where they should go would be: "Anywhere, all is beautiful, only let it be toward the Lido." While both the poet and his sister were scrupulously prompt in returning all calls of ceremony, they were glad to evade formal visits so far as possible; and the absolute freedom with which their hostess surrounded them was grateful beyond words. "The thought deeply impressed me," said Mrs. Bronson, "that one who had lifted so many souls above the mere necessity for living in a troublesome world deserved from those permitted to approach him their best efforts to brighten his personal life.... The little studies for his comfort, the small cares entailed upon me during the too brief days and weeks when his precious life was partly entrusted to my care, might seem to count for little in an existence far removed from that of an ordinary man; yet, as a fact, he was glad and grateful for the smallest attention. He was appreciative of all things. He never regarded gratitude as a burden, as less generous minds are apt to do," continued Mrs. Bronson.

From a painting by Ellen Montalba, in Asolo

In the possession of Editta, Contessa Rucellai (_nee_ Bronson),
Palazzo Rucellai, Florence.]

One of his greatest enjoyments in Venice was to wander with Edith Bronson through the Venetian _calli_. "Edith is the best cicerone in the world," he would remark; "she knows everything and teaches me all she knows. There never was such a guide." The young girl indeed knew her Venice as a devotee knows his illuminated missal, and her lovely vivacity and sweetness must have invested her presence with the same charm that is felt to-day in the Contessa Rucellai, in her Florentine palace, for Miss Bronson, it may be said _en passant_, became the wife of one of the most eminent Italian nobles, the Rucellai holding peculiar claim to distinction even among the princely houses of Florence.

From these gondola excursions they always returned about five, and sometimes the poet would join the group around Mrs. Bronson's tea-table, conversing with equal facility in French, German, or Italian, and to their delight would say, "Edith, dear, you may give me a cup of tea." But as a rule he considered this beverage as too unhygienic at that hour, and whenever with an "Excuse me, please," he sought his own apartments, he was never questioned for his reasons. "It was enough that he wished it," said his hostess. He and Miss Browning always appeared promptly for dinner, which was at half-past seven in Casa Alvisi. The poet was scrupulous about his evening dress; and Miss Browning, Mrs. Bronson relates, was habitually clad "in rich gowns of a somber tint, with quaint, antique jewels, and each day with a different French cap of daintiest make."

The evenings seem to have been idyllic. Browning would often read aloud, and he loved to improvise on an old spinnet standing in a dim recess in one of the salons. The great Venetian families were usually in _villeggiatura_ at the time when Browning was in Venice, so that he met comparatively few of them; it was this freedom from social obligations that contributed so much to the restful character of his sojourns, and enabled him to give himself up to that ineffable enchantment of Venice. He made a few friends, however, among Mrs. Bronson's brilliant circle, and one of the notable figures among these was the old Russian noble and diplomat, Prince Gagarin, who, born in Rome, had been educated in his own country, and had represented Russia at the courts of Athens, Constantinople, and Turin. Mrs. Bronson has told the story of one evening when the poet and the old diplomat indulged in a mutual tournament of music; "first one would sing, and then the other," Browning recalling folk-songs of Russia which he had caught up in his visit to that country fifty years before.

Another of Mrs. Bronson's inner circle, which included the Principessa Montenegro, the mother of Queen Elena, and other notable figures, was the Contessa Marcello, whom both the poet and his sister greatly liked; and one radiant day they all accepted an invitation to visit the Contessa at her villa at Mogliano, a short railway trip from Venice. The poet seemed to much enjoy the brief journey, and at the station was the Contessa with her landau, in which Mrs. Bronson, the poet, and his sister were seated, while Miss Bronson rode one of the ponies on which some of the young people had come down to greet the guests. After luncheon the Contessa, with her young daughter, the Contessina, led their guests out in the grounds to a pergola where coffee was served, and which commanded a vista of a magnificent avenue of copper beeches, whose great branches met and interlaced overhead. The Contessa was the favorite lady of honor at the court of Queen Margherita, and she interested Mr. Browning very much by speaking of her beloved royal mistress, and showing him some of the handwriting of the Queen, which he thought characteristically graceful and forcible. The Contessina and Miss Bronson, with others of the younger people, seated themselves in rustic chairs to listen to every word from the poet; and a Venetian sculptor, who was there, concealed himself in the shrubbery and made a sketch of Browning. The Contessina, who, like all the young Italian girls of high breeding and culture, kept an album of foreign poetry, brought hers, and pleadingly asked Mr. Browning if he would write in it for her. As usual, for the reasons already given, he (perforce) wrote "My Star," and when the girl looked at it she exclaimed that it was one of her old favorites, and showed him where she had already copied it into the book.

At the station, when they drove down again to take the returning train, one of the young _literati_ of Italy was there, and the Contessa introduced him to Browning, saying that the young man had already achieved distinction in letters. Mr. Browning talked with him most cordially, and after they were on their way he said that the young writer "seemed to be a youth of promise, and that he hoped he should meet him again." But when they did hear of him again it was as the lecturer of a series of talks on Zola, "which, as may be supposed," notes Mrs. Bronson, "the poet expressed no desire to attend." The marvelous days of that unearthly loveliness of Venice in the early autumn flew by, and Mrs. Bronson's guest returned to DeVere Gardens. To his hostess the poet wrote, under date of DeVere Gardens, December 15, 1888:

DEAREST FRIEND,--I may just say that and no more; for what can I say?
I shall never have your kindness out of my thoughts,--and you never
will forget me, I know. We shall please you by telling you our journey
was quite prosperous, and wonderfully fine weather, till it ended in
grim London, and its fog and cold. (At Basle there was cold, but the
sun made up for everything.) We altered our plans so far as to sleep
and to stay through a long day at Basle, visiting the museum,
cathedral, etc., and went on by night train in a sleeping-car, of
which we were the sole occupants, to Calais, directly. At Dover the
officials were prepared for us, would not look at the luggage, and
were very helpful as well as courteous; and at London orders had been
given to treat us with all possible good nature. They wouldn't let us
open any box but that where the lamp was packed; offered to take our
word for its weight, and finally asked me, "since there were the three
portions, would I accept the weight of the little vessel at bottom as
that of the other two?" "Rather," as Pen says, so they declined to
weigh the whole lamp, charging less than a quarter of what it does
weigh, and even then requiring assurance that I was "quite satisfied."
We were to be looked after first of all the passengers, and so got
away early enough to find things at home in excellent order.... I send
a hasty line to try to express the impossible,--how much I love you,
and how deeply I feel all your great kindness. Every hour of the day I
miss you, and wish I were with you and dear Edith again, in beloved
Casa Alvisi.

These letters to Mrs. Bronson reveal Browning the man as do no other records in literature. The consciousness of being perfectly understood, and the realization of the delicacy and beauty of the character of Mrs. Bronson made this choice companionship one of the greatest joys in Browning's life. It may, perhaps, as well be interpolated here that a large package of the fascinating letters from Robert Browning to Mrs. Bronson, from which these extracts are made, were placed at the disposal of the writer of this volume by the generous kindness of Mrs. Bronson's daughter, the Contessa Rucellai, and with the slight exception of a few paragraphs used by Mrs. Bronson herself (in two charming papers that she wrote on Browning), they have never before been drawn upon for publication.

Under the date of January 4, 1889, the poet writes to Mrs. Bronson:

No, dearest friend, I can well believe you think of me sometimes, even
oft-times, for in what place, or hour, or hour of the day, can you
fail to be reminded of some piece of kindness done by you and received
by me during those memorable three months when you cared for me and my
sister constantly, and were so successful in your endeavor to make us
perfectly happy. Depend on it, neither I nor she move about this house
(which has got to be less familiar to us through our intimate
acquaintance with yours),--neither of us forget you for a moment, nor
are we without your name on our lips much longer, when we sit quietly
down at home of an evening, and talk over the pleasantest of pleasant
days....

The sole invitation I can but accept this morning is to the Farewell
dinner about to be given by the Lord Mayor to Mr. Phelps; that I am
bound to attend. I have not seen him or Mrs. Phelps yet; but they
receive this afternoon, and if I am able I shall go. You will wish to
know that all our articles have arrived safely, and more expeditiously
than we had expected. The tables, lanterns, etc., are very decidedly
approved of, and fit into the proper corners very comfortably; so that
everywhere will be an object reminding us, however unnecessarily, of
Venice. Your ink-stand brightens the table by my hand; the lamp will
probably stand beside it; while Tassini tempts me to dip into him
every time I pass the book-case. I may never see the loved city again,
but where in the house will not some little incident of the then
unparalleled months, wake up memories of the gondola, and the
stopping, here and there, and the fun at Morchio's; the festive return
home, behind broad-backed Luigi; then the tea, and the dinner, and
Gargarin's crusty old port flavor, and the Dyers, and Ralph Curtis,
and O, the delightful times! Of Edith I say nothing because she has
herself, the darling! written to me, the surprise and joy of that! And
I mean to have a talk with her on paper, alas! my very self, and
induce her not to let me have the last word. Oh, my two beloveds I
must see Venice again; it would be heart-breaking to believe
otherwise. Of course I entered into all your doings, the pretty things
you got, and prettier, I am sure, you gave. And I was sorry, so sorry,
to hear that naughty Edith, no darling, for half a second, now I think
of it,--did not figure in the tableaux. I hope and believe, however,
she did dance in the New Year. Bid her avoid this cold-catching and
consequent headache. Do write, dearest friend, keep me _au courant_ of
everything. No minutest of your doings but is full of interest to me
and Sarianna. But I am at the paper's extreme edge. Were it elephant
folio (is there such a size?) it would not hold all I have in my
heart, and head, too, of love for you and "our Edie;" so, simply, God
bless you, my beloveds!

ROBERT BROWNING.

Princess Montenegro sent me by way of a New Year's card,--what do you
think? A pretty photograph of the Rezzonico. The young lady was
equally mindful of Sarianna.

R. B.

To Miss Edith Bronson the poet wrote, as follows:

DEAREST EDIE,--I did not reply to your letter at once for this reason;
an immediate answer might seem to imply I expected such a delightful
surprise every day, or week, or even month; and it was wise economy to
let you know that I can go on without a second piece of kindness till
you again have such a good impulse and yield to it--by no means
binding yourself to give me regularly such a pleasure. You shall owe
me nothing, but be as generous as is consistent with justice to other
people.... I did not go out except to the complimentary farewell
dinner our Lord Mayor gave to Mr. Phelps which nobody could be excused
from attending. We all grieved at the loss, especially of Mrs. Phelps,
who endeared herself to everybody. Both of them were sorry to go from
us....

The next letter reveals anew Browning's always thoughtful courtesy in bespeaking kindness for mutual friends, as he writes:

"There is arranged to be a sort of expedition [to Venice] of young
Toynbee Hall men, headed by Alberto Ball, the son of our common
friend, for the purpose of studying, not merely amusing, themselves
with,--the beloved city. Well as the Balls are entitled to say that
they know you, still, the young and clever Ball chooses to wish me to
beg your kind notice; and I suppose that his companions are to be
noticed also,--of what really appears to be a praiseworthy effort
after self-instruction. Will you smile on him when he calls on you?
for his father's sake, who is anxious about the scheme's success? I
have bespoken Pen's assistance, and he will do the honors of the
Rezzonico with alacrity, I have no doubt."

(NOW CONTESSA RUCELLAI)

From a Water-Color by Passini, Venice, 1883.]

In almost every life that is strongly individualized those who look back after it has passed from visible sight cannot but recognize how rhythmic are the sequences that have characterized its last months on earth. If the person in question had actually known the day on which he should be called away, he would hardly have done other than he did. It is as if the spirit had some prescience, not realized by the ordinary consciousness, but still controlling its conduct of the last time allotted here. With this last year of Robert Browning's life, this unseen leading is especially obvious. In the spring he had revised his poetic work; he had passed Commemoration week at Oxford, as he loved to do; he had passed much of the time with his friend, the Master of Balliol, and among his last expressions on leaving Oxford was "Jowett knows how I love him." He was also in Cambridge, and Edmund Gosse has charmingly recalled the way in which he dwelt, retrospectively, on his old Italian days.

In June, also, he paid his usual visit to Lord Albemarle (the last survivor of those who fought at Waterloo), and in that month he wrote to Professor Knight, who was about to exchange the Chair of Philosophy at the University of Glasgow for that of Literature at St. Andrews, saying: "It is the right order; Philosophy first, and Poetry, which is its highest outcome, afterward, and much harm has been done by reversing the usual process."

The letters to Mrs. Bronson tell much of the story of these days. In one, dated June 10, 1899, he gives this reminiscence of Asolo:

DEAREST FRIEND,--It was indeed a joy to get your letter. I know that a
change of place would be desirable for you, darling Edie told me so,
but I fancied you would not leave Venice so soon....

... One thing is certain, that if I do go to Venice, and abide at the
Rezzonico, every day during the visit I shall pass over to the beloved
Alvisi and entirely beloved friends there, who are to me in Venice
what San Marco is to the Piazza. Enough of this now, and something
about Asolo.

When I first found out Asolo, I lodged at the main hotel in the
Square,--an old, large inn of the most primitive kind. The ceiling of
my bed-room was traversed by a huge crack, or rather cleft, caused by
the earthquake last year; the sky was as blue as blue could be, and we
were all praying in the fields, expecting the town to tumble in. On
the morning after my arrival, I walked up to the Rocca; and on
returning to breakfast I mentioned it to the land-lady, wherein a
respectable middle-aged man, sitting by, said: "You have done what I,
born here, never thought of doing." I took long walks every day, and
carried away a lively recollection of the general beauty, but I did
not write a word of 'Pippa Passes'--that idea struck me when walking
in an English wood, and I made use of Italian memories.

I used to dream of seeing Asolo in the distance and making vain
attempts to reach it--repeatedly dreamed this for many a year. And
when I found myself once more in Italy, with Sarianna, I went there
straight from Venice. We found the old inn lying in ruins, a new one
(being) built, to take its place,--I suppose that which you see now.
We went to a much inferior albergo, the best then existing, and were
roughly, but pleasantly, entertained for a week, as I say. People told
me the number of inhabitants had greatly increased, and things seemed
generally more ordinary and life-like. I am happy that you like it so
much. When I got my impression, Italy was new to me....

... I shall go to Oxford for Commemoration, and stay a week for
another affair,--a "gaudy" dinner given to the magnates of Eton.

To the forthcoming collection, entitled "Asolando," the group of poems dedicated to Mrs. Bronson, the poet alludes as follows:

... By the way the new little book of poems that was to associate your
name with mine, remains unprinted. For why? The publishers think its
announcement might panic-strike the purchasers of the new edition, who
have nearly enough of me for some time to come! Never mind. We shall
have our innings.

Bless you ever and your Edith; keep me in mind as your very own always
affectionate

R. B.

The poet's love for Asolo is revealed in the following letter to Mrs. Bronson:

29, DEVERE GARDENS, W.

July 17,'89.

DEAREST FRIEND,--I shall delight in fancying your life at Asolo, my
very own of all Italian towns; your house built into the wall, and the
neighboring castle ruins, and the wonderful outlook; on a clear day
you can see much further than Venice. I mentioned some of the dear
spots pointed out to my faith as ruins, while what wants no faith at
all,--the green hills surrounding you, Posagno close by,--how you will
enjoy it! And do go there and get all the good out of the beautiful
place I used to dream about so often in old days, till at last I saw
it again, and the dreams stopped,--to begin, again, I trust, with a
figure there never associated with Asolo before. Shall I ever see you
there in no dream? I cannot say; I feel inclined to leave England this
next autumn that is so soon to overtake us....

Pen stays a few days longer in Paris to complete his picture. He had
declined to compete at the Exposition, but has been awarded a Medal
(3rd), which, however, enables him to dispense with the permission of
the Salon that his works shall be received. Julian Story gets also a
medal of the same class. Pen reports stupendously of the Paris
show....

... Well, you know we have been entertaining and entertained by the
Shah. I met him at Lord Roseberry's, and before dinner was presented
to him, when he asked me in French: _"Etes-vous poete?" "On s'est
permis de le dire quelquefois." "Et vous avez fait des livres?"
"Plusieurs livres?" "Trop de livres." "Voulez-vous m'en faire le
cadeau d'un de vos livres afin que je puisse me ressouvenir de vous?"
"Avec plaisir."_ Accordingly I went next day to a shop where they keep
them ready bound, and chose a brightly covered "selection."...

All the outing I have accomplished was a week at Oxford, which was a
quiet one,--Jowett's health, I fear, not allowing the usual invitation
of guests to Balliol. I had all the more of him, to my great
satisfaction.

Sarianna is quite in her ordinary health, but tired as we cannot but
be. She is away from the house, but I know how much she would have me
put in of love in what I would say for her.... Did you get a little
book by Michael Field? "Long Ago," a number of poems written to
_innestare_ what fragmentary lines and words we have left of Sappho's
poetry. I want to know particularly how they strike you.

To Tennyson for his eightieth birthday Mr. Browning writes:

To-morrow is your birthday, indeed a memorable one. Let me say I
associate myself with the universal pride of our country in your
glory, and in its hope that for many and many a year we may have your
very self among us; secure that your poetry will be a wonder and
delight to all those appointed to come after; and for my own part let
me further say, I have loved you dearly. May God bless you and yours!
I have had disastrous experience.... Admiringly and Affectionately
yours,

ROBERT BROWNING.[17]

To this letter Lord Tennyson replied:

ALDWORTH, August, 1889.

MY DEAR BROWNING,--I thank you with my whole heart and being for your
noble and affectionate letter, and with my whole heart and being I
return your friendship. To be loved and appreciated by so great and
powerful a nature as yours will be a solace to me, and lighten my dark
hours during the short time of life that is left to us.

Ever Yours,

A. TENNYSON.

The poet found himself again longing for his Italy. To Mrs. Bronson, under date of August 8, he wrote, referring to a letter of hers received two days before, crowned with "the magical stamp of Asolo":

"... So a fancy springs up which shall have utterance as just a fancy.
The time has come for determining on some change of place, if change
is ever to be, and, I repeat, just a fancy, if I were inclined to join
you at Asolo, say a fortnight hence, could good rooms be procurable
for Sarianna and myself? Now as you value--I won't say my love, but my
respect and esteem--understand me literally, and give me only the
precise information I want--not one half-syllable about accommodation
in your house!

"I ask because when I and Sarianna went there years ago, the old
Locanda on the Square lay in ruins, and we put up at a rougher inn in
the town's self. I dare say the principal hotel is rebuilt by this
time, or rather has grown somewhat old. Probably you are there indeed.
Just tell us exactly. Pen is trying his best to entice us his way,
which means to Primiero and Venice; but the laziness of age is
subduing me, and how I shrink from the 'middle passage,'--all that day
and night whirling from London to Basle, with the eleven or twelve
hours to Milan. Milan opens on Paradise, but the getting to Milan!
Perhaps I shall turn northward and go to Scotland after all. Still,
dear and good one, tell me what I ask. After the requisite information
you will please tell me accurately how you are, how that wicked
gad-a-bout, Edith, is, and where; and what else you can generously
afford of news,--news Venetian, I mean...."

Later the poet writes:

"... I trust that as few clouds as may be may trouble the blue of our
month at Asolo; I shall bring your book full of verses for a final
overhauling on the spot where, when I first saw it, inspiration seemed
to steam up from the very ground.

"And so Edith is (I conjecture, I hope, rightly) to be with you; won't
I show her the little ridge in the ruin where one talks to the echo to
greatest advantage."

From Milan Browning wrote to Mrs. Bronson:

DEAREST FRIEND,--It is indeed a delight to expect a meeting so soon.
Be good and mindful of how simple our tastes and wants are, and how
they have been far more than satisfied by the half of what you
provided to content them. I shall have nothing to do but to enjoy your
company, not even the little business of improving my health since
that seems perfect. I hear you do not walk as in the old days. I count
upon setting that right again. O Venezia, benedetta!

It was with greater enjoyment, apparently, than ever before even, that Mr. Browning turned to the Asolo of his "Pippa Passes" and "Sordello." Mrs. Bronson, in her brilliant and sympathetic picturing of the poet, speaks of his project "to raise a tower like Pippa's near a certain property in Asolo, where he and Miss Browning might pass at least a part of every year." The "certain property," to which Mrs. Bronson so modestly alludes, was her own place, "La Mura." The tower has since been erected by the poet's son, and the dream is thus fulfilled, though the elder Browning did not live to see it. Mrs. Bronson describes his enjoyment of nature in this lovely little hill-town,--"the ever-changing cloud shadows on the plain, the ranges of many-tinted mountains in the distance, and the fairy-like outline of the blue Euganean Hills, which form in part the southern boundary of the vast Campagna." Browning would speak of the associations which these hills bear with the names of Shelley and Byron.

Across the deep ravine from La Mura a ruined tower was all that remained of the villa of Queen Catarina Cornaro, who, when she lost Cyprus, retired to Asolo; and in Browning's dedication to Mrs. Bronson of his "Asolando," he ascribes the title to Cardinal Bembo, the secretary of Queen Catarina. Mr. Browning loved to recall the traditions of that poetic little court, which for two decades was held within those walls, whose decay was fairly hidden by the wealth of flowers that embowered them. Of his own project he would talk, declaring that he would call it "Pippa's Tower," and that it should be so built that from it he could see Venice every day. He playfully described the flag-signals that should aid communication between "Pippa's Tower" and Casa Alvisi. "A telephone is too modern," he said; and explained that when he asked his friend to dine the flag should be blue,--her favorite color; and if her answer was yes, her flag should be the same color; or if no, her flag should be red. This last visit of the poet to his city of dream and vision seemed to Mrs. Bronson one of unalloyed pleasure. "To think that I should be here again!" he more than once exclaimed, as if with an unconscious recognition that these weeks were to complete the cycle of his life on earth. Asolo is thirty-four miles from Venice, and it is within easy driving distance of Possagno, the native place of Canova, in whose memory the town has a museum filled with his works and casts. "Pen must see this," remarked Mr. Browning, as he lingered over the statues and groups and tombs. Mrs. Bronson records that one day on returning from a drive to Bassano the poet was strangely silent, and no one spoke; finally he announced that he had written a poem since they left Bassano. In response to an exclamation of surprise he said: "Oh, it's all in my head, but I shall write it out presently." His hostess asked if he would not even say what inspired it, to which he returned:

"Well, the birds twittering in the trees suggested it. You know I don't like women to wear those things in their bonnets." The poem in question proved to be "The Lady and the Painter."

Mr. Browning took the greatest enjoyment in the view from Mrs. Bronson's loggia. "Here," he would say, "we can enjoy beauty without fatigue, and be protected from sun, wind, and rain." His hostess has related that its charm made him often break his abstemious habit of refusing the usual five o'clock refreshment, and that he "loved to hear the hissing urn," and when occasionally accepting a cup of tea and a biscuit would say, "I think I am the better for this delicious tea, after all."

Every afternoon at three they all went to drive, exploring the region in all directions. The driving in Asolo seemed to charm him as did the gondola excursions in Venice. "He observed everything," said Mrs. Bronson, "hedges, trees, the fascination of the little river Musone, the great _carri_ piled high with white and purple grapes. He removed his hat in returning the salutation of a priest, and touched his hat in returning the salutation of the poorest peasant, who, after the manner of the country, lifted his own to greet the passing stranger. 'I always salute the church,' Mr. Browning would say; 'I respect it.'"

All his life Browning was an early riser. In Asolo, as elsewhere, he began his day with a cold bath at seven, and at eight he and his sister sat down to their simple breakfast, their hostess keeping no such heroic hours. Mrs. Bronson had adopted the foreign fashion of having her light breakfast served in her room, and her mornings were given to her wide correspondence and her own reading and study. She was a most accomplished and scholarly woman, whose goodness of heart and charm of manner were paralleled by her range of intellectual interests and her grasp of affairs.

After breakfasting Browning and his sister, inseparable companions always, would start off on their wanderings over the hills. The poet was keenly interested in searching out the points of interest of his early years in Asolo; the "echo," the remembered views, the vista whose fascination still remained for him. From the ruined _rocca_ that crowned the hill, the view comprised all the violet-hued plain, stretching away to Padua, Vicenzo, Bassano; the entire atmosphere filled with historic and poetic associations. How the poet mirrored the panorama in his stanzas:

"How many a year, my Asolo,
Since--one step just from sea to land--
I found you, loved yet feared you so--
For natural objects seemed to stand
Palpably fire-clothed! No--"

The "lambent flame," and "Italia's rare, o'er-running beauty," enchanted his vision.

Returning from their saunterings, the brother and sister took up their morning reading of English and French newspapers, Italian books, with the poet's interludes always of his beloved Greek dramatists.

In these October days the Storys arrived to visit Mrs. Bronson in her picturesque abode. An ancient wall, mostly in ruins, with eighteen towers, still surrounds Asolo, and partly in one of these towers, and partly in the arch of the old portal, "La Mura" was half discovered and half constructed. Its loggia had one wall composed entirely of sliding glass, which could be a shelter from the storm with no obstruction of the view, or be thrown open to all the bloom and beauty of the radiant summer. Just across the street was the apartment in which Mrs. Bronson bestowed her guests.

That Browning and Story should thus be brought together again for their last meeting on earth, however undreamed of to them, prefigures itself now as another of those mosaic-like events that combined in beauty and loveliness to make all his last months on earth a poetic sequence. The Storys afterward spoke of Mr. Browning as being "well, and in such force, brilliant, and delightful as ever"; and the last words that passed between the poet and the sculptor were these of Browning's: "We have been friends for forty years, forty years without a break!"

On the first day of November this perfect and final visit to Asolo ended, and yielding to the entreaties of his son, Browning and his sister bade farewell to Mrs. Bronson and her daughter, who were soon to follow them to Venice, where the poet and Miss Browning were to be the guests of the Barrett Brownings in Palazzo Rezzonico.

The events of all these weeks seem divinely appointed to complete with stately symmetry this noble life. As one of them he found in Venice his old friend, and (as has before been said) the greatest interpreter of his poetry, Dr. Hiram Corson. The Cornell professor was taking his University Sabbatical year, and with Mrs. Corson had arrived in Venice just before the poet came down from Asolo. "I called on him the next day," Dr. Corson said of this meeting. "He seemed in his usual vigor, and expressed great pleasure in the restorations his son was making in the palace. 'It's a grand edifice,' he said, 'but too vast.'"

Dr. Corson continued:

"He was then engaged in reading the proofs of his 'Asolando.' He
usually walked two hours every day; went frequently in his gondola
with his sister to his beloved Lido, and one day when I walked with
him

'Where St. Mark's is, where the Doges used to wed the sea with
rings,'

I had to quicken my steps to keep pace with him. He called my
attention to an interesting feature of this world-renowned place, and
told me much of their strange history. He knew the city literally _par
coeur_."

From a painting by J. Colin Forbes, R.A., in the possession of Eugene Rollin Corson.]

Mr. Browning passed with Dr. and Mrs. Corson the last morning they were in Venice. Of the parting Dr. Corson has since written in a personal letter to a friend:

"He told us much about himself; about Asolo, which he had first
visited more than fifty years before, during his visit to Italy in
1838, when, as he says in the Prologue to 'Asolando,' alluding to 'the
burning bush,'

'Natural objects seemed to stand
Palpably fire-clothed.'

"A servant announcing that the gondola had come to take us to the
railway station, he rose from his chair, and said, 'Now be sure to
visit me next May, in London. You'll remember where my little house is
in De Vere Gardens'; and bidding us a cordial good-bye, with a 'God
bless you both,' he hastened away. We little thought, full of life as
he then was, that we should see him no more in this world."

To a letter from Miss Browning to their hostess, Browning added:

DEAREST MRS. BRONSON,--I am away from you in one sense, never to be
away from the thought of you, and your inexpressible kindness. I trust
you will see your way to returning soon. Venice is not herself without
you, in my eyes--I dare say this is a customary phrase, but you well
know what reason I have to use it, with a freshness as if it were
inspired for the first time. Come, bringing news of Edith, and the
doings in the house, and above all of your own health and spirits and
so rejoice

Ever your affectionate

ROBERT BROWNING.

With another letter of his sister's to their beloved friend and hostess, Mr. Browning sent the following note,--perhaps the last lines that he ever wrote to Mrs. Bronson, as she returned almost immediately to Casa Alvisi, and the daily personal intercourse renewed itself to be broken only by his illness and death. The poet wrote:

PALAZZO REZZONICO, Nov. 5th, 1889.

DEAREST FRIEND,--A word to slip into the letter of Sarianna, which I
cannot see go without a scrap of mine. (Come and see Pen and you will
easily concert things with him.) I have all confidence in his
knowledge and power.

I delight in hearing how comfortably all is proceeding with you at La
Mura. I want to say that having finished the first two volumes of
Gozzi, I brought the third with me to finish at my leisure and return
to you; and particularly I may mention that the edition is very rare
and valuable. It appears that Symmonds has just thought it worth while
to translate the work, and he was six months finding a copy to
translate from!

... I have got--since three or four days--the whole of my new volume
in type, and expect to send it back, corrected, by to-morrow at
latest. But I must continue at my work lest interruptions occur, so,
bless you and good-bye in the truest sense, dear one!

Ever Your Affectionately

ROBERT BROWNING.

The "new volume in type" to which he referred was his collection entitled "Asolando," all of which, with the exception of one poem, had been written within the last two years of his life.

Mr. Barrett Browning relates that while his father was reading aloud these last proofs to himself and his wife, the poet paused over the "Epilogue," at the stanza--

"One who never turned his back but marched breast forward,
Never doubted clouds would break,
Never dreamed, though right were worsted, wrong would triumph,
Held we fall to rise, are baffled to fight better,
Sleep to wake."

and remarked: "It almost seems like praising myself to say this, and yet it is true, the simple truth, and so I shall not cancel it."

November, often lovely in Venice, was singularly summer-like that year. On one day Mr. Browning found the heat on the Lido "scarcely endurable," indeed, but "snow-tipped Alps" revealed themselves in the distance, offering a strange contrast to the brilliant sunshine and the soft blue skies. Still November is not June, after all, however perfect the imitation of some of its days. One day there was a heavy fog on his favorite Lido, and the poet, who refused to be deprived of his walk, became thoroughly chilled and illness followed. The following note from Mr. Barrett Browning to Mrs. Bronson indicates the anxiety that prevailed in Palazzo Rezzonico, where the tenderest care of his son and daughter-in-law ministered to the poet. The note is undated, save by the day of the week.

PALAZZO REZZONICO,

9 o'clock, Monday Evening.

DEAREST MRS. BRONSON,--The improvement of last night is scarcely
maintained this morning,--the action of the heart being weaker at
moments. He is quite clear-headed, and is never tired of saving he
feels better, "immensely better,--I don't suppose I could get up and
walk about, in fact I know I could not, but I have no aches or
pains,--quite comfortable, could not be more so,"--this is what he
said a moment ago.

I will let you know if there is any change as the day goes on.

My love to you.

Yours, PEN.

The delightful relations that had always prevailed between the poet and his publishers were touchingly completed when, just before he breathed his last, came a telegram from George Murray Smith with its tidings of the interest with which "Asolando" was being received in England. And then this little note written on that memorable date of December 12, 1889, from Barrett Browning to Mrs. Bronson, tells the story of the poet's entrance on the new life.

PALAZZO REZZONICO,

10.30 P.M.

DEAREST FRIEND,--Our Beloved breathed his last as San Marco's clock
struck ten,--without pain--unconsciously.

I was able to make him happy a little before he became unconscious by
a telegram from Smith saying, "Reviews in all this day's papers most
favorable, edition nearly exhausted."

He just murmured, "How gratifying."

Those were his last intelligible words.

Yours, PEN.

In that hour how could the son and the daughter who so loved him remember aught save the exquisite lines with which the poet had anticipated the reunion with his "Lyric Love":

"Then a light, then thy breast,
O thou soul of my soul! I shall clasp thee again,
And with God be the rest!"

In the grand _sala_ with its floor of black Italian marble and its lofty ceiling with exquisite fresco decoration, the simple and impressive service was held in Palazzo Rezzonico, and a fleet of gondolas, filled with friends and accompanied by the entire Venetian Syndic, bore the casket to its temporary resting-place in the chapel of San Michele, in the campo santo. The gondola that carried the casket had an angel, carved in wood, at the prow, and a lion at the stern. Dean Bradley, on behalf of Westminster Abbey, had telegraphed to Robert Barrett Browning, asking that the body of the poet might be laid within those honored walls; and as the cemetery in Florence wherein is Mrs. Browning's tomb had long been closed, this honor from England was accepted. The same honor of a final resting-place in Westminster Abbey was also extended for the removal of the body of Mrs. Browning, but their son rightly felt that he must yield to the wishes of Florence that her tomb be undisturbed, and it is fitting that it should remain in the Italy she so loved.

Owned by Robert Browning from 1888 to 1906. In the upper room, at the left-hand corner, the poet died.]

So associated with her brother's life was Miss Sarianna Browning that the story would be incomplete not to add that she survived him many years,--a gracious and beloved presence. In the January following the poet's death, she said in a letter to Mrs. Bronson:

"I have already let a day pass without thanking you for the most
beautiful locket, which I love even more for your sake than his. I
shall always think of you, so good, so near, and so dearly loved by
him. All your watchfulness over our smallest comfort,--how he felt
it!... Bless you forever for all the joy you gave him at Asolo,--how
happy he was! And how you were entwined in all our plans for the happy
future we were to enjoy there! Think of him when you go back, as
loving the whole place, and yourself, the embodiment of its
sweetness."